Ice fog!

Seven days in a row of ice fog and frost! The first few days, the air warmed up enough each afternoon to melt a little of the frost that formed on everything, even though the fog hung around almost all day. But after the third day, the fog here never really cleared for more than a few minutes each day, and some days the temps never even got up to freezing, so the frost stayed.

So each morning the frost was a little bit thicker than the day before. My biggest panicum started out upright, but today on the seventh day, it's totally bent over.

One evening I went to get the mail just before sunset and took my camera with me. I used the flash because I thought it might reflect off the tree branches, but instead it bounced off of every tiny crystal of fog.

Now this is what makes a hardy plant—one of my Queen Charlotte sweet violets, which always bloom this time of year.

Today I took a picture of the frost on one of my glass rings. I thought it was cool how the frost fingers formed an outside ring between a few of the piece ends. I didn't think of touching my tongue to it, but I think I know what would have happened.

Either tomorrow or the next day should be the end. This afternoon the sun was out for the longest it's been in a week, and day after tomorrow, showers are supposed to move in again. Then the ground will thaw, and I'm hoping the nights will warm up to above freezing again.

The season of dreaming

We got another snow shower early this morning that left a half inch on everything. I put my coat on over my bathrobe and went out in my house boots with my new camera. I stayed under the trees to keep it dry. When I got to the back porch there was a small fir branch that had come down in a previous wind gust, candy-coated in snowflakes.

My fingertips really cold, I came back in the house, thinking of the wisdom of winter: take this time to rest, take this time to dream, dream of how you'll grow.

An evening surprise

I've been inside all day painting, and the drizzly bears have been dripping outside since late morning. I stopped to make supper and when I looked outside, it was snowing nice big flakes. I ran outside with my camera set with the flash on and snapped a few photos. The flash showed up the flakes. What fun!

Summer done, me included

Morning sun on an Acer japonicum

Fall is here and the colors are starting to come out.

Crocosmia foliage in the wind

It was a very strange bridge this year between summer and fall, with three months straight with almost no rain, and mild temperatures but brutal, leaf-shriveling, dessicating wind for way too many days.

Helenium Red Dwarf, Monkshood, and Amsonia hubrichti

I spent the last of the non-windy but dry days trying to get all my new plants into the ground. One group of prizes was this red Helenium, a blue Monkshood, and the feathery leaves of Amsonia hubrichti. All three went into my meadow. I was happy to see a ring of baby shoots all around the base of the Helenium stalks, which I'll divide off next spring. I covet a meadow full of Heleniums—red ones, orange, gold, and multicolored ones. I love the clear blue of the monkshood, and I am concerned about how toxic it is. If I were ever to have animals back here, I would probably pull it out. The Amsonia I had to have because of that tantalizingly tactile foliage, which turns an even bright gold in the fall. I managed to get two plants from different sources and I really hope they like it here.

Autumn Joy

I cut my Autumn Joy sedums by half the week of July 4th, and it seems that delayed their flowering by about a month. They're just at the peak of flowering now, when it's cool and wet. Next year I'll cut them back sooner. It wasn't enough to keep them from falling apart in the middle, either.

At long last, the rains came, and not a day too soon. As I was digging holes for the plants I was planting, I was astounded by how dry the soil was. Watering two and sometimes three times a week was only moistening the ground down an inch. It was enough to keep the plants alive, and most of them from wilting, but it showed me just how amazing plants are to be able to live in such dry soil. Already I've measured over 6" of rain this month, and I can tell that it's really sinking in. Now if I can just get out and get the last of my plants planted before it gets too cold!

Sango kaku Japanese maple sandwiched between Merrit's Beauty and Oregon Pride hydrangeas

The garden relaxes

The central back garden, Corylus "Red Majestic" in front

I wanted to use the word "blowsy" to describe my garden now, but it has too many pejorative meanings in the dictionary. I don't want to insult my garden, just because its display has peaked for this summer and it's a little unkempt. I think whoever gave the word those meanings spent too much time reading dime novels about "fallen" women. But I love the word for its meanings of "untidy in appearance, frazzled, scrubby, bedraggled, unstylish".

My garden is all of the above, and there's no part of it I don't love. The spent and faded flowers, the ripening fruits, the overgrown enthusiasts, the sagging branches, the toasty scars of this summer's dry wind, the floppiness of almost everything, the scraggy hopefulness of the new transplants and the ones I moved too late for their liking—they're all beautiful, in a forgiving, make-the-best-of-it way. My garden is relaxing, as I am. It's worked hard this year, rooting, branching, blooming. It deserves to let its hair down now, to look a little frumpy, to take a nap before it's time to dress up for fall.

The sun, too, seems to be taking it easier. It's still hot—plenty hot—but it gets up later, doesn't get as high in the sky, no longer hitting all the places it reached a month ago. And me? I get up with the sun, sort of, and I'm winding down, definitely. Besides, I don't work if the temp is over 70 unless I really must. My days right now are full of painting and watering, waiting for it to cool off again before I finish the planting and start transplanting the trees I want to move, and digging up the shrubs that I know now are going to get too big for where I put them.

The plants and I, we're waiting for the rains, hoping they come while it's still warm, hoping they come gently and friendly-like, and not with fierce winds and soggy, spitting cold. The season changes here can take a month, or they can take a day. All we know is that winter will come, whether we have a fall or not. And when the summer has been this gorgeous, this delightful, it seems greedy to ask for a wonderful fall on top of it. We can secretly hope, though.

Best hydrangea year ever

Nikko Blue

We had such a mild winter this last time that none of my macrophylla hydrangeas got frostbitten, no buds dropped, nothing. They started growing early in the spring, never got nipped by late frosts, just kept on growing and budding. When June came, so did the big mops of blossoms, one on top of another, buckets and bundles of hydrangeas, everywhere I looked, in light blue, dark blue, white, lavender, violet, blue-violet, red-violet and purple. The ones shaped like big round mounds, the ones that were odd collections of previously frozen sticks—all were lush and lovely with blooms.

The Merritt's Beauty was one of the fullest ones, three years old and never frozen. Its buds first showed a combination of striking deep sapphire and white, then opened up gradually to a rich, even cobalt blue.

Merritt's Beauty

Many of them I have no names for, grabbed here and there at plant sales and clearance bins, even florist shops in department stores. The blue-violet one in the back I call the bigger-than-your-head hydrangea because a fully mature flower head is big enough for me to wear as a hat.

Unknown or unnamed varieties, early in the season with still normal-sized blooms

There's a long row of mopheads planted in the section I call the grotto, where the soil stays wet in the summer and there's little sun.

More unknowns

My grandmother had two big blue mopheads growing outside her apartment near the southern California coast; I first saw them when I was in junior high, and I'd never seen any flower that I thought was so beautiful. From that first sight, I wanted some. I never had a chance to grow them till I moved to Oregon, and as soon as I started gardening here I started buying them and planting them. I lost several during the hard freezes of '08 and '09, and it's a constant chore to keep them all watered during the dry season. More than once I've thought of how much easier my summers would be if I didn't have to worry about them. But they're so gorgeous, those great swaths of blues and purples, fading to green, blue-green, slate-blue, and mauve through late summer and fall, till they finally go brown and slowly fall apart over the winter—I can't imagine my garden without them. Even when the two-day hot, unrelenting wind came in August and crisped bits of all of them, I knew that next year—barring a really bad freeze—they'll all be back again, bigger and bluer and better than before. If we ever have a serious drought, I may lose all of them. But until then, I'll just keep loving them.

Summer winding down

This has been a beautiful summer for the garden, and thanks to the mild temps I've been able to spend a lot of time out in it. Finally, I've been able to go out and really feel that I'm in a garden. There are still plenty of unfinished and unsightly areas for me to keep working on, but there are spots that are pure joy.

Now I'm trying to catch up on my blogging, which I'm sorry I neglected, because I've had so many great hours out there I can't count or remember them all. I have a backlog of photos to post, so this may be an out-of-sequence hodge podge for a while.

One of my go-to plant groups is Carex grasses. I have 6 or 7 species now, and orange sedges are one of my favorites. They grow in every kind of soil I have, and seem very tolerant of inconsistent watering. And nothing eats them. I was able divide a couple of my bigger ones this year, and every year I find at least a couple babies in the spring. Most of them turn out to be bronze rather than orange, but I have plenty of places to put them. The more sun they get, the more orange they show. The Bowles Golden sedges are happy where they get regular water and plenty of shade, and they don't seem to care about how soggy their site gets in the winter. I have quite a few bronze sedges; some of them were here when I moved in and they just keep going, and I usually get at least a couple new babies, just like the orangies.

Carex testacea, in morning light

Bowles Golden Sedge

Bronze Sedge

I found a new plant to love this year. Actually I had one, a Bergarten Sage, already growing in my Ruth Stout veggie garden, but this year I realized just how tough and versatile this plant is. It spreads slowly—mine is about 18" wide now—tastes great in cooking, and like the carexes, seems ready to grow anywhere, whether I take care of it or not. I bought four more of them and put them in various spots around the garden where I'd like to have a no-care ground cover. Where they get enough sun, they pop out with beautiful blue flowers in midsummer that continue to look decorative after the petals fall off.

Bergarten sage

I tried two other sages this year—they're so cheap—a purple sage I put into a mostly-shady spot where it won't get much water in the dry season, and the pineapple sage I put just outside my veggie garden, where I really didn't expect it to do much. It does get watered every other day there. Imagine my surprise when it got two feet tall and a foot across, and still has the wonderful light fragrance from which it got its name. I haven't tried it in cooking but I certainly will. I bet it would be wonderful in rice or curry. A friend confirmed that it grows beautifully in her garden as well, has for a couple years, and gets covered with red flowers in the fall. I look forward to that.

Pineapple sage embracing a small blue spruce

Just a couple weeks ago I went on an HPSO trip to Sebright Gardens in Salem, where I found this adorable little Pinus strobus "Vercurve". I'm positively silly about curly-needle pines and this little cutie will only get a few feet tall in 10 years.

Pinus strobus "Vercurve"